Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)
by Ista
Summary: It's Beth's birthday and preparations are being made, but strange events are about to transpire. An exploration of the horror genre, including: nightmares, ghosts, a werewolf, a vampire, dancing zombies, a basement, Rick and Daryl, and cake. *Spoilers: Takes place fairly soon after Season 3, before Season 4 events.*
1. The Escape

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** This is the second piece of fanfiction I've written about "Walking Dead." Enjoy!

**Chapter 1: The Escape**

Daryl Dixon wiped blood out of his eyes and screamed into the night.

"Rick!"

The sound seemed to carry and then dissipate in the humid air, scattering and gone as if it had never existed.

_It was supposed to be a routine scouting expedition. Short and sweet. Leave the lights on for us, everyone. Back in time for birthday cake._

Daryl could not remember a time when he had run so fast and for so long. His lungs ached and burned, he gasped for breath, and he clutched his rib cage on his right side where he had fallen in his haste to escape.

Grimes and Dixon had been exploring various areas surrounding the prison, going farther than they had ever ventured before in the hopes that they would discover where the Governor was hiding out, when they had stumbled upon the horde.

They had run back together at first, but then Daryl had lost sight of Rick, blending in with the darkness of twilight in the dense forest. Daryl remembered felling dozens of walkers, wasting arrows faster than he could keep track. He remembered the panic of knowing that he was alone. He remembered falling suddenly, tripping in the darkness because he couldn't see. He remembered the pain exploding in his rib cage and the grit of dirt in his mouth as he fell into the depths of nothingness.

He ran. Dixon ran for survival, calling out Rick's name with the hope that he was still alive, that they could flee together and make it home all right. He ran despite the pain that threatened to close his eyes and force him to succumb to the walkers moaning viciously just behind him.

Then, a miracle occurred.

He saw a light in the darkness.

The forest parted and yawned, revealing a clearing, featuring a small farmhouse surrounded by an overgrown cornfield. It was all so charming and perfect. Daryl shook his head briefly, uncertain if what he was seeing was real or a hallucination, but a better look told him that it was definitely real, and there _were_ lights on inside the house.

_How is that possible?_

"Rick?!" he called out again, sure that Grimes had spotted the house and was the one responsible for the lights, like a signal of safety.

Daryl ran with the last strength left inside him. He hurled through the thick corn, brushing stalks aside as they scratched his face, small streams of blood running down his arms. His mouth dry and his right side throbbing with pain, Daryl staggered out of the cornfield and approached the house as if it was a beacon of hope in the night.

_You're getting soft._

He pushed the thought aside and wobbled to the front door, banging his fists on the door in desperate earnestness.

"Rick! It's me! Let me in! Please! Help!"

When the door abruptly opened, Dixon found himself falling inside, landing with a _thud_ on the foyer's rosy red carpet. Daryl, straining in agony, suddenly looked up into the crinkly eyes of a senior citizen.

"Well, hello, Alfie. You look absolutely dead."

Daryl Dixon felt consciousness slip away as his face met the rug and the old lady slammed the door shut behind him.


	2. The Music Box

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** Enjoy!

**Chapter 2: The Music Box**

Glenn found himself staring into space, remembering a specific moment in time. He had been twelve years old, and he had seen a ghost in his bedroom.

It wasn't one of those see-through Victorian-dress-wearing wraiths. She had been vivid and tangible, with spiked hair and a leather jacket. Glenn had no doubt that if he had reached out to grab her arm, he would have touched tattooed flesh and bone. But he had sat in his bed, too paralyzed with a sensation he would only experience once again in his life: it was the feeling of the _uncanny._

Freud defined the "uncanny" as the sensation of cognitive dissonance experienced when one is attracted to and repulsed by an object at the same time. Glenn recalled the term during one of his psychology lectures in college and knew that he had found a way to explain his emotions that day.

As the ghost girl had smiled at him, lips blood-red, and had walked out of the room, her high heels clicking against the hardwood floor without making any sound at all, the uncanny mist of her form evaporated. Glenn had shuddered hard, and it took him fifteen minutes to work up the courage and leave the safety of his warm bed.

He had never told anyone about the ghost girl he saw that day, and he never experienced the _uncanny_ feeling again.

Until today.

"Hey."

Glenn gasped when he felt hands grab his waist. He spun around, facing Maggie, who had a bemused look on her face.

"Sorry to scare you! You didn't answer me when I called."

"S-sorry," mumbled Glenn, and he ran a hand through his hair. However, no motion could prevent the incredible shudder that suddenly coursed through his body, causing his teeth to chatter.

Maggie bit her lip and leaned in to him. "Glenn . . . Are you okay?"

Glenn nodded, and then caught her suspicious eyes, slowly shaking his head.

"I'm feeling really weird today, Maggie. Something's just not right."

"Yeah, you're right," she said with a slight smile. "There's a dead person shuffling down the road about a mile away, and we're walking through a deserted town—"

"No," Glenn interrupted. "I mean I have the feeling that today is not an ordinary day."

Maggie shifted her pickaxe to a different hand and scavenged through some boxes by the side of the road. "You're right. It's Beth's birthday."

Glenn shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky, not surprised to see brooding dark clouds floating along the treetops in the distance.

_It's not Friday the thirteenth. It's not the sixth day of the sixth month…_

It was Maggie who drew his attention back to the here and now.

"C'mon," she said, and hugged him tightly. "It'll be all right. But we've got to finish up here. If we're not fast, Rick and Daryl will beat us to the party."

Glenn said, "Okay, let's get going," and noted the small group of walkers that were starting to congregate hundreds of yards down the road. He would have to deal with them soon if they came any closer.

The mission was fairly easy and straightforward. They picked up the usual sundries, including medical supplies, miscellaneous items of clothing, and the ever-precious formula for Judith.

Glenn was good at scavenging, running in and out of buildings as silently and quickly as a mouse. He prided himself on his and Maggie's efficiency, but today was different. Glenn still couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was afoot.

_What do they call it in Star Trek? A tear in the space-time continuum?_

Glenn smiled grimly, and zipped the collar up on his jacket in defiance at the sudden wind.

Maggie touched his shoulder and he forced himself not to flinch at her movement.

"Can we stay for just a bit longer? I want to get Beth a birthday present."

"She's already getting a cake," he said softly, "and I don't like the fact that those walkers are getting closer."

"I know," she said," but I really want to make this day special for her. I mean—when was the last time we celebrated _anyone's_ birthday?"

Glenn knew that Maggie was right. The group's decision to celebrate Beth's birthday wasn't a fluke or an act of favoritism; it was a chance to acknowledge how far all of them had come by surviving the Governor's onslaught, by taking in the others from Woodbury, and accepting the relative stability the prison afforded them. This birthday was meant to be the symbol of a new beginning for the group. At least, that's what Rick had said before he and Daryl left to go scouting.

"What do you have in mind for a present?" Glenn asked, picking up half of a mutilated teddy bear by the side of the road. "I think the general store's a little short on iPods and laptops."

"I don't know," said Maggie absent-mindedly, rummaging through an assortment of briefcases and gym bags by the side of the road. "Found it."

Glenn glanced up, noting that the group of walkers was almost on their block. Then he turned his attention to what Maggie held in her hand.

It was a small silver case with flower engravings on the sides. At first, Glenn thought that it was a jewelry box, but when Maggie twisted it in her hand he could hear gears moving, and then she opened it.

Glenn shivered as he looked straight into the eyes of the ghost girl.

Painted eyes blazed from inside the box, dramatic eyebrows arching and soft eyelashes framing dark ovals. The lids were creased in pink and blue paint, glittering faintly, and the bottom of the box was a simple mirror. Glenn found himself drawn to Maggie's eyes reflected opposite of the other pair, plain and unornamented in contrast.

The case was empty, but a song began to play from its silver, tinkling bell music chiming and ringing down the street.

"It's a waltz," Maggie said breathlessly.

Glenn immediately raised his hunting knife in response to the walkers, now only half a block away. Yet, instead of sending them into a renewed frenzy, the music made them pause. This intrigued Glenn, and he kept watching, as if compelled by the music into curious complacency. He had no way of predicting, however, what wonders were to happen next.

"Maggie," he whispered. "You've got to see this."

The walkers had begun to sway in a drowsy and stiff manner, which was at first barely perceptible until they were moving in time to the dreamy tempo. Their feet moved rhythmically, the steps almost graceful in a garish and gruesome way.

The walkers were dancing.

From the corner of his sight, Glenn could see Maggie's mouth wide open in surprise.

_One two three, one two three._

The lilting melody from Maggie's music box drifted far down the street, and the walkers continued their gentle bows and twirls even as the song slowed down, each note becoming one tone chiming out.

The song abruptly stopped and Maggie slammed the music box shut without thinking. At once, the girl's eyes vanished.

The walkers froze at first, some of them even looking up at each other, as if trying to comprehend what just happened, and then their instinctual appetite for fresh meat took over.

"We're going," said Glenn. "Now."

Grabbing Maggie's hand, he pulled her towards the car and they dove inside. As Maggie carefully stashed provisions in the back seat, Glenn started the engine and careened down the block, away from the hungry moans of the walkers.

Breathless and frightened, Glenn got back on the main road and checked on Maggie beside him, making sure that she was all right. With a twinge of fear, he noted the music box resting on her lap. She was staring at it as if in a dream, her hands moving over the flower engravings.

"What just happened?" Glenn said aloud, to no one in particular.

Maggie shook her head and glanced up at him, grinning. "I'm not sure, but this is going to be the best birthday gift Beth ever received."


	3. The Chase

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** Most characters in the show get the chance to shine at some point in this fic. More Daryl to come in Chapter 5!

**Chapter 3: The Chase**

Rick Grimes was having a transcendental experience.

It wasn't that the forest was full of walkers, ghosts, and werewolves. It wasn't that the earth beneath him was slowly giving way to clay and sand. It wasn't even that he could feel his spirit breaking and evaporating with every exhausting step.

It was the fact that Shane was back, and he was chasing him.

Rick couldn't understand how it could possibly be true. One moment, he had been running frantically through the woods, walkers in pursuit and Daryl close behind him. The next moment, he and Daryl had been separated.

The dark forest slowly morphed into swampland and Rick stopped briefly to survey the terrain up ahead. He could hear the growl of walkers a short distance behind him. Rick wasn't sure if he'd be able to make it around the swamp and back into the woods. Besides, the swamp might be the perfect spot to lose the walkers if he didn't get stuck in quicksand or bitten by a snake first.

That's when a hand gripped his shoulder and he spun around to look into the eyes of his former partner.

Shane looked good for a dead man. His face was smooth and devoid of stubble, his hair medium-length and lustrous, as if he had never shaved it off. He was sporting his officer's uniform, which Rick couldn't believe was spotless. There was a particular glow about him that didn't belong to cheap moonlight, and Rick was tempted for a split-second to reach out and grab his old friend's hand. The moment did not last for long, however. Although his face was unblemished as a whole, Shane's eyes were troubling—black pupils, like dots of ink, with red irises. They spoke his intention and symbolized it before the words ever came out of his mouth

"Hey, Rick. Will you join me?"

It seemed to take an eternity to turn around and run, but Grimes eventually scrambled off, zig-zagging haphazardly through the swamp, no clue as to where he was headed, but quite sure he had to get as far away from Shane as possible.

"Daryl!" he called out, more angry than scared. Since when did the dead rise and die and rise again? Grimes picked up the pace of his run, his lungs burning.

"Come on, Rick," came Shane's voice from right behind him. "We'll have some fun."

_How the hell can he talk?_

Rick shouted, "I think I'm good! Pretty busy being Walker Texas Ranger and Fox Mulder tonight."

His shoes suddenly slipped in the mud and Grimes slid for about eight feet before coming to a crashing stop against a tree stump. Stunned temporarily, Rick felt warmth running down his right temple, and he saw bright lights. Through the lights, his stomach churned at the sight of shiny black boots steadily approaching towards him.

"You're nothing, Rick, but you always thought you were something. You and your high moral standards—your ethics. Made me sick."

Rick shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. He slowly and carefully felt for the gun in his holster as Shane continued his rant.

"You were jealous of Lori and me. Just admit it. You couldn't stand the fact that she loved me more than you."

Rick could feel Shane's bitter breath on his face, bent over and sneering.

"Lori _wanted_ me, Rick. And I gave her what she wanted. You are nothing but a fool."

Grimes raised his gun to Shane. "And you are dead."

He pulled the trigger and staggered away as quickly as he could, his ears ringing and the right side of his head throbbing angrily. Cobwebs still clouded his vision, but he held his weapon tightly and chanced a quick look back at Shane.

Rick felt his face flush and his hands get cold as Shane slowly got up from what had been a fatal shot. He stood stiffly and then smiled at Rick, white teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight.

Grimes didn't wait around to hear Shane's rebuttal, but he heard the cries echoing through the swamp:

"I'm Lon Cheney! I'm the Wolfman, and I'm coming to get you!"

Rick ran for what seemed like hours. He ran until he was gasping for breath and the side of his head pulsed painfully with each heartbeat. As the swamp became impassable, Rick was forced to slow down, just a few paces behind Shane, always feeling his hot maniacal breath on his heels.

Just when Rick felt that he had carved a good distance between him and Shane, his feet stuck in mud and quicksand, causing him to thrash about instinctively. Of course, the movement made his predicament worse, and Rick found himself slowing sinking into the ground with absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He frantically searched the two-foot radius around himself for any branches he could grab hold of, and forced himself to calm down. Rick's stillness slowed his downward progression, but he still had no hope of getting out before Shane caught up to him.

"That little girl is mine," came a soft voice through the swamp, and Rick's head throbbed, causing him to thrash around more in the sand.

"Once you're dead, I'm going to raise Judith and Carl as my own. The group will be mine. Daryl's gone and there'll be no one to stop me."

_Have you met Michonne and her sword?_ Rick thought grimly.

Through the mist and faded moonlight, Shane's figure approached. Rick was now buried up to his waist, and he held his gun above the sand, his arms growing more and more tired.

As Shane drew closer, he began to laugh. "Stuck in the mud, Rick? How ironic. I'd always thought you'd get bitten by a walker, or betrayed by a friend, like _ME_."

Rick uttered a silent scream as he took in the gruesome details of Shane's face. Hollow cheekbones bled into half a nose, which drooped over his lips. The flesh had either rotted or been torn away from the right side near his jaw, revealing a fiercesome set of chompers. Shane's eyes were pure pupil now, black and emitting a red light that Rick could almost feel burning his skin. Curled bits of brain and dried blood crusted the side of his head where Carl had fired the shot—the shot that ultimately saved Rick's life and ended Shane's permanently.

Grimes remembered briefly the delirious first few days he had spent in Hershel's home, donating pint after pint of blood to Carl after his son had been accidentally shot. Hershel kept saying the blood was going to save his life. When the veterinarian left the room, Lori made the joke that Hershel was actually a vampire. Rick remembered the blood flowing out of him and envisioned that same blood leaking out of Carl's hands and oozing out of the gun the boy carried.

Shane spat, "I will break your body!"

"You're too late," Rick said, smiling grimly, feeling the sand tugging at his ankles. Only his head was above the surface now. "I'm already broken."

As Shane lunged forward with claw-like hands, the quicksand pulled Rick down. He took in a deep breath and felt the cool wash of white light cover him. In that moment, Rick felt at peace. It was all going to be over soon.

And then Grimes woke up to find himself in complete darkness.


	4. The Cake

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** I've never attempted to make a cake this way, so my limited baking knowledge could be completely wrong. *Spoilers: Yep, I know Merle's supposed to be dead at this point in the show. It's intentional. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 4: The Cake**

Carol knew that the cake was a big deal. It would be the first confection she had attempted post world-gone-to-hell. So the expectations were pretty high.

Rick had decided a week ago, when Maggie brought up the random fact that Beth's birthday was coming up, to throw a surprise party for her. That's when the ideas had started rolling in. Hershel and some of the group's recent members from Woodbury had volunteered to decorate, Maggie was determined to scrounge up a present, and that left someone in charge of the cake.

Carol had agreed to bake, knowing that with four other group members gone that day, she would have to take on the task alone. Therefore she was extremely surprised when Carl showed up in the kitchen with a clean face and eager eyes.

"I want to help!" he said.

Carol tried to hide her amusement with a stern façade. "Is that so? And who's going to keep an eye on Beth?"

Carl sighed. "Beth is watching Judith. She's got her hands full, literally. I don't think she'll be going anywhere for quite a while."

Carol put a hand to her chin, as if seriously debating this decision, and Carl's eyes widened in desperation.

"Please," he said softly. "I want to help."

"Okay," Carol said. "But first, remove the sheriff's hat. It's impossible to bake a cake with a pie on your head."

It took them about fifteen minutes to find most of the ingredients they would need. Flour was the easiest ingredient to find, but sugar was more precious, and baking powder was almost non-existent. Maggie had found vanilla on a scouting expedition about a month ago. With all of the ingredients assembled, Carl found a large mixing bowl and they were about to begin.

Then Hershel ambled in. He was literally covered by the tremendous armful of flowers he had slung over his shoulder.

"Afternoon," he said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and proceeded towards the cooler. "Needed some water."

Carol and Carl paused, too enraptured by the current sight of Hershel covered in petals than the task at hand.

"Starting an indoor garden?" Carol asked dryly.

Hershel chuckled and set a single stemmed flower on the counter in front of them. "It's a Cherokee rose, Beth's favorite. I thought I'd decorate the main block with them."

Carl picked it and examined it. Five delicate white petals connected to form a sunny yellow center with a few black specks. It smelled of drowsy sweetness and reminded him of a time not so long ago when his parents were dancing in the hallway of their home on the hottest day of the year. His dad was smiling and his mom was wearing a white dress, and she was twirling, twirling, twirling—

"You can keep it," said Hershel, gesturing with one of his crutches, a faint smile on his face. "I've only got about a million here with me."

The older vet was almost out the door when he stopped and turned around. "You're baking a chocolate cake, right?"

Carol nearly choked. "Chocolate?"

"It's Beth's favorite," he said softly. "Hope you can pull it off."

"Where are we gonna get chocolate, Hershel?" Carol asked. "Is Willy Wonka's factory down the road?"

Hershel winked, approving of the sarcasm, and said one word: "Merle."

* * *

He was slumped against the wall in his bunk when Carol found him, mouth hanging open, and a fine line of drool running down his chin.

_This wasn't what I signed up for._

Carol began by clearing her throat, and then she cleared it a little louder.

Merle uttered something that was a mix between a laugh-snort, and kept right on sleeping.

She could feel the seconds slipping away and wondered what Beth was up to. It was only a matter of time before she came looking for company.

"Merle!"

The man jerked upright, eyes red, and hands hovering over his side arm. Slowly, he relaxed back into the bunk, running a full hand across his face.

"Whatever you want, that dream was more important."

Carol smirked. "Was she naked?"

Merle had a far-away expression in his eyes. "No, but she had glasses . . . What can I do for you? Another of Officer Friendly's requests?"

"No." She leaned in closer. "Mine."

Merle's eyebrows arched in surprise, and a slow dopey smile sprang from his lips. "You're kidding."

Carol shook her head simply.

Grinning, Merle relaxed back in his cot, fingers interlocked and behind his head. "What can I do for you?"

"I need chocolate."

There was a pause.

"Chocolate?!"

Carol nodded innocently.

Merle practically leapt from his bunk, beginning to pace, as if he was on the defensive.

"Word has it that you're the man to see."

"So what if I am?" he shot back, looking over his shoulder as if there were others spying on them.

Carol clasped her hands together. "Look, I'm baking for a birthday today, as you well know. You're my only hope for a chocolate cake. Can you help me?"

Merle paced a bit more, his brow furrowed as if he was deciding matters of global politics, or a complex mathematical equation.

"All right," he said with a raspy breath. "But it's gonna cost you."

Carol never lost a beat. "Booze and sex are out."

Merle moaned, and almost collapsed back onto his bunk. She went to him gently then, her voice softening.

"Look, let me know what I can do for you. I'm sure we could reach some kind of compromise. This birthday is really important for the group. Merle, tell me what you need—"

At that moment, Merle reached out to her. Carol flinched slightly, and then relaxed when she realized all he wanted to do was hold her hand. They stayed that way, sitting silently together, for several minutes. Carol was too nervous to meet his gaze, but when she chanced a look, she realized that his eyes were closed. He sat peacefully, looking almost content, the first time she had ever seen him look that way.

At last, Merle released her, and dropped to his hands and knees, rummaging underneath the bunk. When he surfaced, he held in his hands two bars of chocolate. It wasn't baking chocolate, but it would do. Delicately, he placed them in Carol's open arms.

"Better be the best damned birthday cake I've ever eaten," he grumbled afterwards.

Carol was almost in too much shock to fully take in what had just transpired between them. She stood up and said confidently, "It will be."

She was about to turn the corner and walk down the hall when she heard Merle's voice and stopped, looking back at him. All alone in his cot, he looked like a sad and tired man.

"If anyone asks, you traded it for booze."

Carol nodded. "Of course."

* * *

Carl was the best helper Carol could have asked for. He had the same acute intensity that his father possessed when faced with a problem. Carl threw himself into the baking business and never looked back.

Carol had never baked a cake in a pot before, but she placed a wire rack in the bottom of the kettle and carried the contraption outside. Carl followed closely behind, holding the chocolate mixture as if it was a sacred elixir, their hope and their salvation.

"Let's just hold off on our expectations until we taste the finished product," said Carol out loud, musing.

The two walked briskly and soon found a quiet spot outdoors to start a small fire. Carl gathered brush and kindle, and Carol lit the fire with a match, cultivating it until it was burning adequately. Carl placed the holder over the flames, and Carol set the kettle in its place.

Carol nodded to her assistant silently, and he began to pour the batter slowly into the pot, pausing only to make sure that none was misplaced. Afterwards, Carol took a spoon and wiped the bowl clean, rapping the spoon against the kettle, and watching the drops fleck the top of the cake. Carol covered the kettle, and then they waited.

Carl took a few moments to check on Beth, at Carol's request, and she settled in, checking the kettle's contents every few minutes to make sure it was cooking evenly and not burning around the edges. It was strange to view time in this new world, she thought. The one watch she possessed had stopped working several months ago when the battery died. It was strange that she still wore it on her wrist, almost as a reminder of the way things used to be.

Without a timer, she waited. Carl returned and faithfully waited with her, pacing the perimeter of their area as if walkers might appear at any moment in spite of the fences.

The sweet smell of chocolate began to rise in the air, and it almost brought a tear to her eye. When was the last time she had baked a birthday cake?

_Sophia had a birthday cake. You made one for her three years ago. It was a vanilla cake with raspberry filling and butter cream frosting, her favorite. Do you remember the icing balloons on top and the dolphin? Dolphins were always her favorite—_

"Are we going to decorate it?" Carl asked, interrupting her thoughts and reading them at the same time.

Carol stirred and cleared her throat. "I suppose we could."

"Musical notes," said Carl. "I think we should put musical notes on the cake. Beth likes music."

"It may not even turn out," said Carol softly.

Just then, a distant yell drew their attention away from the cake, albeit temporarily, and towards the fences several yards away. Carl ran towards the sound, a hand on his holster. Carol chased after him, oven mitts covering her hands like protective paws, pulling him back.

"That smells nice," came a voice.

Carol's body sagged and she managed a soft chuckle.

"Baking a cake."

Michonne placed her booted right foot firmly on the body of a walker she had just run through the head and pulled her sword cleanly out with a grunt.

She must have had a productive practice, Carol thought. A dozen corpses lay strewn in a sloppy pile around her body. The quiet warrior ran her blade through the grass in long sweeping motions, flicking off the dark blood as meticulously as a painter defines brush strokes.

"That reminds me," Michonne said, approaching the fence.

Carl stepped towards her, a combination of respect and awe in his eyes.

She produced a small object from her belt and pushed it through a hole in the fence towards Carl.

"Don't know why I kept it this long," she said. "But now I do."

Nodding at Carol, Michonne walked away.

Carl turned around, his eyes wide. A small pink birthday candle lay in his outstretched palm.


	5. The Lady in the House

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** Back to Daryl! I was trying to go with the weird vibe started in Chapter 2. Enjoy!

**Chapter 5: The Lady in the House**

Daryl woke up and immediately wished that he was still unconscious.

It was more than the still-throbbing pain along his ribcage. It was more than the thirst in his dry throat. It was more than the overwhelming scent of stagnant perfume that accosted his nostrils. It was more than the music on the record player, circa 1935. It was more than the fact that he was wearing different clothes, scratchy and questionable.

It was the face of the old woman, with a lipstick-red smile, that made Daryl's blood freeze.

"Alfie, are you feeling better?"

_Alfie?_

The swing music continued to pound in his skull as Daryl struggled to form coherent thoughts. He shook his head a couple of times and willed his vision to clear. When it did, he immediately cringed when he got a good look at his attire. An upside-down reindeer grinned at him from his green sweater. His khakis were the high-waisted kind that had immense popularity back in his grandpa's day, and his shoes were brown and neatly polished.

Daryl didn't know which thought was more frightening: being undressed by an old lady, or wearing a Christmas sweater in July.

"My, you gave me quite a fright. And with your father out on patrol these past few nights, I didn't know how I'd be able to get you to the doctor's."

Thoughts of walkers and apocalyptic visions flickered through Daryl's mind.

_How is this lady still alive? Why are there lights on?_

"Thank goodness that your father kept the generator in perfect order, or heaven knows what I would have done in the dark."

Daryl shook his head again and his vision cleared almost completely. He realized that he was sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of a well-kept living room. A plush maroon sofa and matching loveseat were on either side of him. Directly in front was the oldest television set Daryl had ever seen, complete with bunny ears and large knobs on the right hand side.

"Ma'am," he managed to say with a raspy voice. "There must be some mistake. I'm sorry for disturbing you in the middle of the night, but there are some things going on right now that you need to be aware of."

_Damn, Dixon. You're starting to sound like Rick._

The old lady smoothed back her grey-white hair, culminating in a bun on the back of her head. She was wearing a yellow dress with a fuzzy white sweater, and she looked at him quizzically, like a lost sheep.

Daryl took a deep breath, wondering how much time had passed since he had run through the cornfield, and wondering if Rick had made it. He was about to stand when he noticed that his hands were conveniently tied behind his back.

"All right, granny," said Daryl, anger edging into his voice. "What's the big idea?"

The old lady backed away slightly, viewing him with suspicion through her horn-rimmed glasses.

"You're not yourself, Alfie," she said softly. "It's for your own good."

Daryl strained against the ropes, causing ripples of pain to shoot through his ribs. He gritted his teeth. "You're crazy! Let me go! I'm not Alfie! LISTEN TO ME!"

The lady clucked her tongue and appeared to brush a tear from her eye. "You must be hungry. I'll go and make you a sandwich. You rest here."

She stepped closer to him as Dixon tried in vain to wriggle free.

"Please," he said, pleading. "Let me go."

Her face loomed large in front of him, painted cheeks and blue eye shadow gleaming grotesquely.

"You're my only son. I'm never going to let you go."

* * *

_What you've got here is a "Psycho" situation. You're Sam Loomis, and she's Norman Bates in drag._

While "Mrs. Bates" was busy in the kitchen, Daryl kept the panic from rising in the back of his throat, like bile, and focused on the ropes that bound his hands behind him. For a senior citizen, she certainly made strong knots.

And where was his crossbow? As far as Dixon could crane his neck, it was nowhere in sight.

Meanwhile, he tried to stifle the other disturbing thoughts lingering in the forefront of his mind. How could this woman possibly be alive? Why weren't walkers haunting her hallways? Daryl couldn't begin to contemplate the answers. When struggling against the rope proved useless, he realized he was going to have to use a secret Dixon weapon: charm. He would charm his way out of this loony bin.

Unless he lost his patience first.

"Here you are, my dear." The lady appeared, bearing a TV dinner tray of crackers and a peanut butter sandwich. She set it on his lap and Daryl blinked at it, hands still behind his back.

"Hope you're feeling better. Go ahead and eat!" She grinned widely and gestured for him to take the food.

Daryl attempted a grateful smile, but it ended up looking more like a scared grimace. "Thank you. I _am _feeling better. I know this will sound weird, but I can't remember your name. What is it?"

The lady seemed delighted and put a hand to her painted face. "Well, I suppose you've been calling me 'mom' for so many years that you might have forgotten, junior. It's Viola."

"Viola," Daryl repeated, and winked. "That's a beautiful name. Gee, I'd sure love to try this wonderful food, but my hands seem to be tied here and—"

"Oh, of course," she said, clapping a hand to her brow as if she was a silly goose, and then picked up a half of his sandwich and brought it to his mouth.

Daryl had no intention of eating the stale who-knows-where-it's-been lunch out of her gnarled hands, but took a small bite to satisfy her, and shivered as the peanut butter slid down his throat.

"Are you cold, dear?" she asked, placing the sandwich back on the tray. "You can borrow my sweater."

Daryl shook his head furiously, not relishing the sight of Viola with fewer clothes on or the thought of being covered with another fuzzy sweater that looked like a collage of hairballs.

Then she took it off, and the creepiness of the lady in the house was suddenly taken to a whole new level.

_Oh, Jesus._

There was a mark of blood close to her right shoulder, congealed and brown with age. It crusted around a still-fresh wound. Daryl winced and every muscle in his body suddenly strained against his bonds.

It was a human bite mark.

Daryl was working at double the speed now, fiddling with the ropes that refused to loosen.

"That looks pretty bad," he said calmly. "What happened?"

"A dog bit me," she said, and he could see her eyes flicker. "It was a mean old dog."

He wondered if the fever had started yet and wondered if she was beginning to hallucinate.

Then she snapped back to the present. "Alfie, if you're feeling better, I need you work on my TV."

_Does she expect me to fix it with my toes?_

But Viola, with surprising strength, lifted Daryl off his feet and set him on a path towards the television set.

Daryl saw his chance to exit, stage left, but was stopped when he saw the pictures on the mantelpiece. As if the images were taken from a scrapbook of "happiest memories," Dixon gazed at Viola's life. He saw her standing on a sunny beach, her head back in delight as a wave crested over her ankles. He saw an older man with the biggest Bluefish he had ever seen in his bare hands, grinning boldly. He saw a younger man with the same smile, standing in front of a tinseled Christmas tree in the same spot where Daryl stood now, his arms around a slightly younger Viola. Daryl grimaced. The young man was wearing Daryl's sweater.

When Dixon turned around, his arms beginning to ache from the strain of trying to free them, Viola was standing with screwdrivers in her hands. Her eyes had all the expectancy of a cat awaiting fresh tuna.

"I can't," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Alfie, I don't know when you're father is going to be home, and this is an emergency—"

"Yeah, it's a real emergency. You're right. There's a deadly disease out there, and the dead have come back to fight us and make our lives hell. And you're about to become on of those walkers. You've been bitten by one of them. So you have to let me go. You have to let me go so that I'll live."

Viola looked at him, and tilted her head.

"I have a family, just like you have one. There's a group of people who depend on me, just like Alfred Jr. depended on you. But wherever he is, he's lookin' for you, just like my friends will look for me. Please . . . Let me go."

Viola's next move was impressive, even for senior standards. She held up a screwdriver from the collection of TV tools next to Daryl and wielded it as if she was in a Bruce Lee film.

Dixon took a deep breath and shot past her, bumping into a china cabinet, which went flying, along with its contents. Daryl winced and kept going, turning left at the corridor that led to the front door.

"Wait!" came her voice. "If you're going to leave, you'll need that bow of yours."

Daryl paused briefly, clutching his right side as it burned with fresh pain. He looked back at Viola, standing in the hallway behind him, somewhat older and smaller now. She seemed tired, and he felt a twinge of guilt for what he was about to do—leave her and never come back.

"Where is it? I can get it."

"I put it in the basement. Here." She walked stiffly down the hall, bowing her head as if it pained her to think about him leaving, but aware she had been defeated.

Daryl reluctantly followed, knowing that he was close to cutting the ropes that tied his hands. And if he was about to wander back into the night, he was definitely going to need a weapon.

Viola opened a door in the side of the hallway, close to the warm glow of the kitchen. Daryl peeked through the open doorway and spied pure darkness.

"I can't see it," he mumbled, craning his neck farther forward.

That's when he felt a rough shove from behind and Daryl Dixon found himself plunging forward, head over heels, down the steep staircase. When the vicious motion finally stopped, his body screamed with pain and he shifted his crumpled form towards the small rectangle of light at the top of the stairs.

The world was spinning, but Daryl briefly saw Viola's figure, sturdy and triumphant, framed by the yellow light, like some demonic angel. Her hands were on her hips.

"Cool your heels in the cellar awhile. The dog that bit me's down here too. Maybe you can tame him."

The door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicked with finality, and Daryl was swept into total darkness.


	6. The Basement

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** Let me know what you're thinking about this fic. Enjoy!

**Chapter 6: The Basement**

With the sound of a loud noise, Rick Grimes awakened from his nightmare. Slowly, he came to his senses and his eyes adjusted to the dark. His eyes were drawn to the only source of light, a window that let in fragments of moonshine.

Then it all came back to him.

Fleeing from the walkers with Daryl. Hitting his head during the chase. Running blindly until he came to the cornfields. Walkers had followed him and were about to eat his brains for dinner when he found the window along the back of the house. It was a basement window. The latch was loose and he swung himself inside.

_What now, Grimes?_

His first priority was to get out of there and find Daryl. The group was probably going crazy with worry by now. The big question on Rick's mind was: Are the walkers still outside? If they were, it was going to be a long and dangerous trek through the field back to the woods.

Rick held onto the wall to pull himself up and immediately regretted the decision. His head pounded unreasonably and his throat was dry. The darkness of the basement grew even darker, and he wondered if he had enough strength to hoist himself through the window.

A moan and sounds of movement suddenly trumped his previous "big question" to be replaced by another more urgent one:

_Is there someone else down here?_

Or some _thing?_

Rick 's hands instantly grasped the hunting knife at his side, which he was grateful to still own. Willing his head to cease throbbing, he stepped cautiously forward, into the darkness, one pace at a time. He couldn't be certain, but he thought he heard slight breathing from his right. Rick pursued the sound, edging slowly and painfully forward until—

He ran into somebody.

There was a scream (Rick) and an expletive (the other person), and Grimes suddenly wondered if his concussed brain was playing tricks on him.

Because, in the faint light, the man he ran into looked an awful lot like Daryl. Except this man was wearing a get-up that would give Ward Cleaver a run for his money.

"Rick?"

Grimes put out an uncertain arm, as if grasping at a ghost.

"Daryl?"

"No, it's his evil 1950's clone."

Pissed off. Sarcastic. It was definitely Daryl.

A flood of relief washed over Grimes, and he sighed. "Nice to see you again. Do I need to ask you about the outfit?"

Daryl's look was pure venom.

"I guess not. Nice reindeer."

Although Dixon's demeanor was fierce, his voice was shaky. "Viola shoved me down the stairs."

"Who's Viola?" Rick briefly examined Daryl's eyes and began to study him for signs of trauma. That's when he noticed that Daryl's hands were tied together behind his back. "Jesus, Daryl! What happened?"

Swiftly, Rick took his hunting knife and cut the ropes. Daryl winced and immediately began rubbing his wrists where the ropes had burned and cut into them.

"Thanks. It's a long story."

However, before Rick had time to get the full explanation, a gruff moan directly up ahead, and to their left, stopped him cold.

Daryl spun around, faltering slightly. Rick held out a hand to steady him, and didn't blink once. It was clear that Dixon was hurt, but that would have to wait. He quietly took out his knife.

"Viola said there was a dog down here," whispered Daryl.

Moving slowly in the dark, the two men hobbled closer to the far right corner of the basement, as if drawn by a magnet more than their own strange curiosity.

They stopped when the moans got louder. There was another noise too. Rick winced.

Chains.

"I have a flashlight," murmured Daryl.

Rick took a deep breath and steadied his hand with the knife. "Do it."

A beam of light flickered across the dusty space and shone directly into the eyes of a walker who had once been an older man. Dust covered his clothes and dark blood ran down his neck from a bite mark. Chains wrapped around his legs and wrists, tying him to an old water heater. His face was the color of chalk, and his lips were red. As he snarled, his eyes grew wider, exposing black pupils. Rick suddenly remembered Shane from his dream.

_"I'm a werewolf."_

Even more chilling was the fact that the walker was wearing a similar hat to the one Carl cherished now. Grimes spotted the badge on his chest, smeared with dark blood, but still shiny in the light.

_Sergeant Walker. At your service._

Rick did a poor job of hiding the shudder that ran through him. "That's no dog."

"No," said Daryl. "That's Alfred."


	7. The Memory

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** I have been working on this chapter for a while and finally decided to split it up into two parts since it was getting rather long. Thanks to Meredith for her kind review! Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 7: The Memory**

Blood ran down his hands.

Life was chaotic at the moment. Living in Woodbury had been a luxury, albeit a façade of normalcy, but he secretly loathed it. Yes, the power was fulfilling, but he realized now that he would never been satisfied living there. Even if Penny had lived. Even if Andrea had been faithful. Why should he have been content with a small town when he could have had a fortress?

So now he lived on the run, biding his time, always thinking, always planning for revenge against Grimes and the ones who destroyed everything that belonged to him. He and his men would stop for a few days, gathering supplies, and then continue on.

Clearing out of the most recent ghost town earlier that day, he had left behind a small duffle bag in his haste. And they were nearly a half hour away before he realized the terrible error. Martinez wanted to keep going. Said it was just a bag of trinkets. Nothing to fret over. They'd pick it up later.

That's when he had pounded his fists into the side of Martinez's face. He kept with the motion until blood began to run down the other man's face, red and happy, until his hands were covered in the bright stuff.

He parted ways with his men and he decided to go back alone. Give them some time to think about their allegiance. And a part of him (the frustrated part) secretly hoped they would clear out and never come back. It would be easier that way.

The Governor wiped his hands off on his jeans and surveyed the small town before him. It was a simple three-block main street, a scattering of abandoned businesses and homes on either side. Broken glass on the sidewalks glittered in the pink-orange glow of sunset. A light breeze blew through his black coat and ruffled his hair gently, as if welcoming him. He eased back on his heels and allowed himself a soft sigh. This is what he enjoyed: being alone. Fewer things went wrong when you did the job yourself.

Yet, he felt a twinge of doubt inside him; he had forgotten about the bag. He had left behind the one object that was most important to him. It was _her_ music box—the only thing he had left to remind him of Penny.

The Governor pulled out a silver flask from his coat pocket and took a swig from it, as he had done several times that day, feeling the smooth burn of whiskey as it sailed down his throat. It woke him up, dulled the pain in his hands, and reminded him to get going. Soon it would be night time, and funny creatures came out at night.

Ambling down the left-hand sidewalk, he found the black bag with other rubbish in front of the building where they had squatted for a few days. The Governor stopped abruptly, and turned around. The breeze stirred trash and leaves with equal beauty in the fading light.

He could have sworn someone was there.

Gently, he put a hand on his hip, running his fingers along the smooth metal of his Beretta. Although he still felt uneasy, the touch of his gun brought instant comfort. It was time to get going. Hand still lingering at his side, he quickly knelt down beside the bag and began to dig through it. He was looking for a small silver box with white flowers. . .

An image in his mind abruptly accosted him, like a waking dream. The Governor was powerless to stop his own memory, and instead of fighting it, he embraced it.

All of a sudden, he was in a backyard, full of streamers and balloons. There was the scattered sound of children laughing, the smell of smoke and barbecue, and the caress of soft grass against his bare feet. It was the summer time, back when he had a family, before he lost an eye, when he was called _Philip._

Penny was a beacon of pink. She wore a light pink swimsuit and a neon headband. She had tied a fuchsia-colored beach blanket across her neck and it flowed behind her like a cape. Her mother was trying to coax her away from the wading pool to open presents, but she would screech, giggle with delight, and run away. Too hopped up on ice cream to sit still, probably. The Governor tried focusing on the sound of the adult voices, but his mind kept coming back to Penny. She was the focus of the memory. It was _her_ birthday, after all.

He heard himself speak then, a muffled sound, and Penny giggled, twirling back towards him. He could always charm her. His hands produced a present, a small one, rectangular, and quite unlike the monstrously large presents stacked up to his right, topped with gigantic bows.

Penny got serious then, edging towards him uncertainly. The present he offered her was plainly wrapped in gold paper, with no ribbon or frills attached.

"Open it," he had said, almost a command.

His memory focused on her face as she intently and carefully unwrapped the tiny gift. The sounds around the backyard had hushed and all of the children were quiet. She cooed with pleasure when the wrapping paper at last fell away to reveal the silver box. Without any prompting from her mother, Penny opened it up and her mouth formed a perfect O.

"Whose eyes are they?" she asked immediately, looking up at him for an answer.

"The eyes of a pink princess," he said. "Your eyes."

But none of his responses satisfied her. And like the tricky eyes of the Cheshire Cat, Penny gazed at their disembodied beauty. She was enchanted by them, and she always would be.

The next thing he remembered, Penny was rushing forward and hugging him. He laughed, rocking backwards.

"Thank you. Thank you, daddy," she said. "It's the best present ever!"

Gently, he took the box from her, showing her how to wind it up and draw music from it. Seemingly overwhelmed by the fact that her beautiful gift was even _more_ than a mirror started Penny into a spasm of twirls. She danced, and danced, and danced, a vision of pink blurring together as the memory faded.

The Governor cursed himself and tossed the empty duffel bag aside, kicking through small piles of trash on the sidewalk nearby. He reached for the flask in his pocket

and took another nip of the whiskey. The fact that it was gone was _unacceptable._

It was the last thing he had left of his daughter.

"It's gone," came a soft voice on the wind, almost an echo of his thoughts. It was a _woman's_ voice.


	8. The Chair

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to _The Walking Dead._

**Other Stuff:** So, things are getting weirder . . . Thanks for the reviews!

**Chapter 8: The Chair**

The Governor spun around, gun at the ready. Cocking his head to one side, he tried to focus on the figure in front of him. Ever since the _incident_ with Michonne, the Governor had tried to adjust to his lack of depth perception. He had almost grown accustomed to the eye patch, and on his most ruthless days, fancied himself a pirate. On days when he was the Charming Lost Soul With a Dark Heart, he was Rooster Cogburn.

As he scanned the figure in the dying light, the Governor realized that he couldn't see her face because it was hidden by a hood. She was wearing a long black cloak that blended in with the ensuing night. The strangeness of the outfit threw him off at first. He was going to have to find out her intentions and character before he decided whether he was going to play the dusty cowboy or the cutthroat.

"And who," he growled, "might you be?"

"There were two people who came earlier into this town. They were looking for supplies. They found your music box and took it."

The dark figure stood still, the edges of the cloak curling and blowing softly in the breeze.

"Who are you?" the Governor asked quietly.

"I live here," the figure said. "I watched you and your men for a few days."

"_What_ are you?"

A very brief laugh emanated from the face of the hood, musical and lilting. It put the Governor at ease and terrified him at the same time.

"I'm not armed. You don't need your weapon."

The Governor slowly lowered his gun, still on alert.

"Would you like to have a drink with me? I will show you where I live."

Suddenly, the Governor leapt forward, raising his gun and gripping the woman by the neck. She didn't even flinch or cry out as he roughly patted her down, checking for hidden weapons. He was thorough in his search and let go without finding anything, stepping quickly back.

"Sorry," he said, flashing the winning smile that had won him the affections of so many in the past. It was time to turn on the cowboy charm. "Did you say drinks?"

The cloaked figure stood deathly still. It unnerved the Governor, especially with the black clouds rolling above him and the silence on the streets.

"Let's get inside before we become walker bait," he offered again, gleaming that goofy smile.

"I am sorry for your loss," she said suddenly, the wind seeming to pick up with her speech.

"What do you mean?"

"I lost my sister to this disease some time ago. I lost friends. But come. I have something to show you." Her voice changed at once into something sultry, seductive.

The Governor began to get very excited very quickly and temporarily forgot his search for the music box. "Lead the way."

She took his hand and he walked with her as if in a dream. The breeze was cleansing as the last light of day faded in the distance. The Governor was impressed with how quietly the lady in the cloak moved, almost like a black cat or some floating winged thing.

Strange as it was, he let her lead him. The Governor let her lead him down the main street of the ghost town and into an abandoned antiques shop.

"I live in an apartment upstairs," she said, but he hardly heard her. A tiredness had settled in the Governor's body, and whether it was from the fatigue of the day's travel, or the steady sips of whiskey, he felt his body move at a slower pace.

As they walked silently around shelves of dusty trinkets, he paused. A silver box rested on a shelf just at his eye level. There were white flowers engraved on the sides…

"Wait," he murmured, and he reached up to grab the precious item.

How could this be? Had she lied to him about the fate of the music box?

But as he took it into his hands, the lightness of the object revealed that it was made of cardboard, a simple vessel for jewelry or small trinkets. As it fell to the ground, he felt a tug on his arm.

In the fading light within the shop, he almost saw the glimmer of eyes underneath the hood.

"We're almost there."

The Governor followed, his steps falling harder as they climbed, up, up, down a dingy corridor, and into a small room.

As the door to the room creaked open, the Governor's guard went up slightly, but his shoulders immediately slumped back down when he realized that the room was devoid of any one else.

"Would you care for a drink?"

The door closed behind him with a gentle click that woke him up slightly, and he nodded at her, beginning to be aware of the oddities of this particular room.

Bookshelves lined one wall, with a well-worn plush purple armchair in front of them. There was a small desk and dresser drawer in the right hand corner. The cloaked lady stood before the desk, mixing drinks with a stirrer that clinked against the glasses hypnotically. A mirror hung on the far wall, slightly cracked, and a table was in the middle with a few cups and plates. But what really interested him were the objects to his immediate left and right.

On the left was a coffin. It was grand, made out of reddish-brown wood, perhaps mahogany.

The Governor might not have thought much of the coffin's presence (the apartment being above an antiques shop, after all) but it seemed so out of place in this room, a room without a bed . . .

On his right was something that looked very much like a dentist's chair, made of dull metal, complete with a head rest and tray attachments on its left. The Governor strained to see the compartment of tools and surgical instruments, swallowing back the feeling that he had gazed at this chair before, that it belonged to him, the same one he used to use gleefully in Woodbury.

_Where did she get it?_

He stepped closer and could smell the blood on it, the stains fresh and enticing.

When was the last time he had eaten? His head was spinning, and the Governor whirled around at the touch on his shoulder.

"Your drink," came her soft voice, holding the glass out expectantly.

More than ever before, the Governor resisted pulling back her hood. Why hadn't he uncloaked her before when he was checking for weapons? Hadn't he seen her face? All of a sudden, he couldn't be sure.

He took the glass from the gloved hand suspiciously as she sipped from her own. He could imagine her face now before him, slightly amused, waiting.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

Her chuckle was musical as she set her glass down. "Drink your drink. It's not poisoned."

Then she began to move around the room, taking a matchbook from the folds of her cloak and lighting various candles until the space was transformed into a vaguely romantic setting.

_If you're into Phantom of the Opera, _he thought.

The Governor looked at his drink, sniffing it for traces of chemicals. When he found none, he took a sip. It was surprisingly smooth, a mix of flowery sweetness and ginger masking how strong it was. In a second, it was gone, and the woman was taking the glass from him, mixing another.

A warmth spread through his chest, sliding through his fingertips, and the Governor began to relax.

"So how long have you been living here?"

Her movements were blurred together, and another trill of musical notes fell from her lips, oh so delicate and coy. She handed him another drink, which he sipped slowly, allowing the sweetness and ginger to sink through him.

"Not long. Maybe a week or less."

"What happened?" he said, resisting the urge to unmask her again. "Was it your sister?"

"No, she died before that. We were surviving together with a good group of people. After she died, I was totally lost, but they became my family. They got me through everything. And then I was left behind. I found another group, but they weren't as kind as the one before . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she paused, then moved quickly and fluidly across the room to the enormous bookshelf.

"Do you ever read Freud?" she asked.

The Governor nearly choked on his drink. _Yes, I read him frequently. Right after my daily dose of Jung._

"No, not really."

She took a book, its leather cover old and faded, its pages yellowed and curled at the edges. Flipping through it, her fingers stopped at a particular passage and skimmed across the words lightly. Her form seemed to shimmer as the Governor finished his drink.

"Freud studied déjà vu and actually wrote a lot about it. His take on the topic was that déjà vu happens when someone is suddenly reminded of an unconscious fantasy. Now, the subject of the fantasy is blocked from your conscious mind, but its familiarity comes through and _that_'s déjà vu. It's a fantasy that you can't quite grasp . . ."

The woman in the cloak seemed to float across the room towards him. Was he dreaming or did she breeze past the mirror without making a reflection in it? He shuddered and licked his lips at the same time.

"It's _uncanny_," she said, "but I could have sworn since the first moment I saw you tonight that I'd seen you before. In fact, I _know_ you."

Smooth porcelain hands shot out of the cloak, grasping his own. The Governor trembled under her touch, but was somehow frozen to the spot.

_What was in that drink?_

Although part of him was fighting inside to run, to reach for his gun, another part of him longed to be with her, to feel the touch of another human being, and to finally spy the face under the hood.

"You like my chair?" she asked, guiding him towards it. "I saw you looking at it when you first came in."

"Yes," he mumbled, choking out a laugh. "I had a moment of . . ."

"Déjà vu?" There was a smile behind the words. "I agree. We've been here before. Would you like to try it, Philip?"

There was no chance to cry out, to grab the Beretta, or take a hike. The world spun as the woman's hands pushed him violently into the chair, forcing him down with more strength than he would have thought she was capable of. Perhaps he could have gotten free if he had tried, but he was still strangely drawn to her. It was the anticipation that made him stay. He _had_ to see her face.

She smoothly clipped restraints over his arms, legs, and torso until he could barely move. It was only once the Governor was tied down that he began to sweat a little, straining against the bonds.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "I'm not into this kind of thing!"

The silence immediately after implied that he was lying, and she knew it.

The cloaked figure stood back for a while, swaying slightly, watching as the Governor thrashed aggressively back and forth, creating a rattling sound, like the cymbal's crescendo.

"Yes, we've been here before," she said softly. Swiftly moving forward, she leaned over his body. The Governor stopped moving, partially in awe, partially paralyzed with fear. She picked up his hands, caressing them against her mouth. "But I think last time _I_ was in the chair."

Then slowly, gracefully, she lifted the edges of the dark hood and pulled it over her head, letting it drape over blonde strands of hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her once blue eyes now glimmered black and the Governor felt a wave of horror wash over him.

"_Andrea_?!"

She winked, tilting her head. "Hi, Philip."

Feelings of nausea mixed with guilt and compete terror, rolling around in the Governor's body. He suddenly felt as if he was under water, gasping for breath, and slowly sinking to the bottom of the sea. He writhed at her touch as she grabbed his hands again, bending down and rubbing them over her face.

"I'm so glad to see you again. It feels meant to be. You've changed, I think. And so have I."

As the Governor watched in silent fear, Andrea slowly opened her mouth to smile, revealing abnormally long canine teeth, stretched out and pointed. Suddenly the coffin and the mirror made perfect sense.

"I don't really eat anymore," she whispered. "I go for _red_ meat."

With that, she took his left palm and sank her teeth into it. The Governor had no breath to cry out; he was transfixed by her eyes, the eyes so similar to the ones that reflected in the music box's mirror. Those eyes seemed to say to him:

_Just like the others. You're dead inside._

Andrea moved in closer, grinning garishly.

"This was my fantasy."

At last, the Governor screamed.

Blood ran down his hands.


	9. The Return

**Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)**

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I don't own anything related to The Walking Dead.

**Other Stuff:** Haven't posted in a while. This is the penultimate chapter. Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy!

**Chapter 9: The Return**

Daryl crouched behind a bush by a corner of the farmhouse. And although his right side was still burning with pain, his senses were tuned to the slightest movement. If a walker decided to stagger their way now, it would ruin everything.

The past five minutes had been a blur of bruising agony. After running into the biter formerly known as Alfred, Rick had pulled him back towards the small window he had supposedly climbed through to hide. Daryl's protestations fell on Rick's stubborn ears; he knew the look well that he saw on the other man's face. It spelled out the phrase: _Shut up and follow my lead, or else._

In fact, Daryl had no time to offer an alternate mode of escape before Rick had hoisted him up with two hands firmly clasped together. Dixon barely put out arms in time to brace himself against the swinging glass pane as he found himself flying out of the basement and into the moonlit night. He skidded through the tough grass and stifled a groan. His ribs shifted again, and his vision swam uncertainly. In spite of the pain, he immediately sat up, scouting for walkers.

He was about to call down to Rick to tell him that the area was clear when Grimes hoisted himself up through the window, grasping at the sides. Daryl quickly leaned in, catching his hands and pulling him the rest of the way through.

Daryl quickly collapsed on the grass and Rick followed suit. For a few brief minutes, the two men caught their breath and stared at each other in astonishment.

_Just wait until we tell the folks at the prison about what happened tonight!_

Dixon wasn't big on reflection. In fact, during the past year or so, he had dismissed all weirdness in his life as the norm. What else could you do to stay sane in a world that defied description? Merle's death had rocked his faith in family ties, while at the same time re-affirming it. Merle had died to save him, to save the family, even though his death was cruel and reflected the world around him.

Yet, how could he claim that the world was cruel when he had found Carol, despite all odds? She had been in that filthy dark cell the entire time. While she had used all of her depleted energy to give him a sign and hoist that cell door open, close, open, close, he had taken out all of his vengeance on walkers deep within the prison. As if they were the ultimate reasons behind her disappearance.

But Carol was alive! And she cared for him. Grimes was almost like a brother to him now. Hershel was a father figure. Glenn and Maggie were good friends, and Judith, Carl, and Beth had become children to all of them. Whether or not they survived this night, Daryl was proud that they had gone out in the first place to help the family Merle had helped.

Rick muttered something, and Daryl was suddenly back in the present, sitting on the grass beside him.

"What was that?"

"Best be on our way."

Grimes stood slowly, but his legs were wobbly, and Daryl hoisted himself up to help the other man.

"Y'all right?"

Rick nodded grimly. "I'll be fine."

Daryl studied the other man quickly. Besides the scrapes and bruises, he noticed traces of dried blood along the side of his neck, stemming from his head. A concussion was a possible companion of that type of injury, and Daryl was about to state it to Rick when another wave of pain arched through the tracker's right side, and he froze.

Rick's laughter caught him off guard, and he looked up.

"Quite a pair we are," Grimes said.

Daryl grimaced. "Yeah. I mean, what would the others do without us?"

Rick shook his head and gave Daryl a "Shall We?" look, about to sprint off into the cornfields, but Daryl put a hand up to stop him.

"What is it?" Rick looked at him with concern.

Daryl hated to bring it up, but it was the reason he had been shoved into the basement in the first place. "Viola still has my crossbow."

Grimes sighed, rolling his eyes. "If you think I'm going to manhandle an old lady just to get some old bow. . ." He trailed off when he saw the anger mingling with desperation in Dixon's eyes.

"All right," Rick said, his shoulders sagging with surrender. "What's the plan?"

Daryl began dusting Rick off gingerly, smoothing his askew collar back into place. "_You_ are, Sherriff."

* * *

Dixon waited impatiently behind the bush, blinking back exhaustion and trying to understand the sure-to-be strange conversation taking place between Viola and Rick. Although Daryl couldn't quite make out the exchange of words, he could pick up Rick's even tones carrying through the quiet night air.

_Charm her, Rick._

If either one of them could succeed in the "charm" business, it was sure to be the ex-lawman.

A few minutes passed and Daryl shifted in his position, straining to hear the conversation as it dwindled away. Confused, the tracker eased to his feet with some difficulty, listening to the silence that now permeated the clearing. The lack of sound was unnerving. In fact, this entire day had been getting under Daryl's skin.

Resisting the urge to call out to his friend, Daryl pressed his back to the farmhouse and cautiously walked towards the front door. As he approached the entrance, his heart fluttered.

The door was left open, an arc of warm light falling upon his battered features. Rick and Viola were nowhere in sight.

_Just great._

While Dixon was preoccupied with the latest twist in what was turning out to be the worst recon mission ever, he failed to hear the soft staggering footsteps of three walkers who came up behind him with a growling vengeance.

Daryl turned at the last second, ducking as the largest one, a male, lunged at him. What was left of the walker's hand trailed through the air grotesquely in red fleshy streaks, and Daryl thought about his options.

He didn't have much time. The other two walkers were smaller but faster, and they appeared to have much sharper fingernails.

Dixon's first instinct was to run straight for the farmhouse and slam the door shut behind him. However, something stopped him at the last moment. There was something magical (albeit creepy) about that place. It was almost a liminal space, like a lost artifact from a time that, fairly soon, no one would remember. It was the final piece of nearly untainted innocence, of light, of the familiar. Daryl paused and thought about the pictures on the mantelpiece, the ones of smiling faces. Would it be right to barge in and destroy that?

Besides, Rick probably wouldn't appreciate Daryl ruining his own plan with three walkers on his heels.

So Daryl ran behind the farmhouse, enticing the walkers to follow him with low calls. Unarmed, Daryl frantically looked around for anything that might suit a little moonlit walker impaling. He wiped fresh sweat from his brow and instinctively felt for a crossbow that wasn't there. The world spun slightly and he picked up a flimsy plastic chair from the back lawn, taking a deep breath.

He didn't have to wait long. The three stooges came lumbering towards the back, drawn by his shouts and gestures. Daryl hefted the chair and brought it down upon one of the female's heads, sending her reeling but not puncturing her skull. The chair broke into pieces with the violent impact and Daryl scrambled towards the back of the house.

"Rick!" he screamed, hating to break his vow of quiet and yet out of options at this point.

The larger walker swiped at Daryl, and he leapt out of the way, crashing into a woodpile that was hidden behind two trash bins. The force of the fall sent a sharp tendril of pain through his already bruised ribs. As he scrambled quickly to his feet, Daryl noticed that it wasn't blocks of wood that had cut a deep gash into his side.

Dixon had fallen on an ax.

In one instant, Daryl wielded the weapon, staggering slightly with its weight, and sent the ax blade cleanly through the male walker's neck. The creature barely had breath for a gurgle before it collapsed in two pieces at the tracker's feet. Daryl immediately grimaced and cried out in pain, inadvertently dropping the ax and clutching his right side where a patch of red was beginning to seep through his shirt. He fell to his knees, gasping as he once again picked up the ax and dropped it, the tool slipping through his hands with greasy walker blood.

He could smell the foul breath of the other two walkers as they stepped unceremoniously over their companion and paused, almost fawning over Dixon. Through the fog in his mind and the mist in the air, he suddenly saw the walkers as they used to be: beautiful women wearing glimmering sequined dresses. Dark red lipstick adorned their lips and their eyes, like jewels, sparkled in the moonlight.

"_It's all right_," he could have sworn one of them said to him. "_You're one of the fair ones. You'll go down without a fight_."

"_You'll enjoy it_," said another one, her voice light and airy. "_Just relax._"

For a moment, Dixon was hypnotized by their words, and then he watched in horror as the sequins squirmed with maggots, their lips curling into blood-red grimaces, showcasing mouths of cavities. Their eyes that once winked at him turned into dull black marbles, projecting only one thought outwards, like a knife:

_Feed._

Crying out, Dixon swung the ax weakly, merely scooting the walkers away, and waited for them to return. He had imagined this moment dozens of times before and was forced to re-live it in his most recent dreams. Thoughts of Merle and Andrea were constantly with him. Would he be able to see them again in the future? Was _now_ that time?

Daryl shook the distracting thoughts from his mind and was about to attempt picking the ax up again when two arrows smoothly and silently spliced through the side of each walker's head. They toppled over instantly, and Daryl was left speechless.

"This thing is great. I'm going to have to get myself one of these."

Rick ambled over, still a bit unsteady, but with a huge grin on his face and Dixon's crossbow in hands. He paused when he got closer to Daryl and noticed his new weapon.

"Where did you get that?" Rick asked, obviously impressed.

Daryl, with a shaky hand, indicated the woodpile. He could feel his heart, once slamming in his chest with adrenaline and fear, begin to slow down a bit.

Rick knelt down and touched the tool lightly, examining it.

"Well, Daryl, it looks like you've got a bearded axe."

Dixon blinked.

Rick continued. "Two weapons for the price of one! Not bad."

"Price?" Daryl whispered.

Rick sighed. "You won't believe the amount of stories I had to listen to about her dear Alfred—the finest officer on the force, and camping trips, and birthday parties. She even made me eat one of her sugar cookies." Rick shuddered. "Terrifying. And Alfie Jr. wasn't much better. He wanted to drag me into his studio and show me his collection of fishing tackle. Anyways, speaking of birthday parties, I believe we're extremely late for one—"

Daryl suddenly stood up, masking the pain in his right side. He took Rick's arm firmly. "Wait. You saw Alfie?"

Rick paused and his brows furrowed, as if Dixon might have lost a tiny bit of oxygen to the brain. "Yeah . . . Didn't you? He was wearing a sweater just like yours."

A light turned on above them from the house, flooding into the backyard and blinding the men temporarily.

"Let's get out of here," said Daryl, letting go of Rick, but the other man stopped abruptly. Dixon felt like every panic button inside him had been pressed at once and he had swallowed an extra dose of hurry-up. What was going on with Rick?

Grimes looked again at the crossbow in his hands with awe. "You know, this situation reminds me of something. A book? Or a movie. I'm an elf." He indicated the crossbow. "And you're a dwarf." He touched the ax with overt reverence. "Get it?"

Daryl was once again stunned into silence by the oddness of the situation, and merely responded with: "Come on, Grimes. I think you're losing it."

"Just picture me with long blonde hair!" Rick cried as Daryl physically dragged him towards the front of the house and the cornfields beyond.

Daryl couldn't be completely sure, but he thought he saw two figures standing side by side on the front porch of the house just as he and Rick were about to enter the dense corn crop. It was undeniably Viola, looking healthy and hardy, with Alfie Jr. standing next to her. They were both smiling at him, the light from the house causing their bodies to glow unnaturally. As Daryl forced to turn away from the strangely enticing sight, he heard the comforting sound of a dog barking. Alfie stepped aside as a lively golden retriever sauntered up next to the tall man. Junior, grinning, knelt down and petted the dog with genuine affection.

"Good boy," he said into the night.

Daryl shivered and pulled Rick with him through the course corn, fighting back the dimness at the corners of his vision.

Once they were free of the cornfields, Daryl's head cleared somewhat. Whatever had happened to them that night at the farmhouse seemed like a dream now. The spell had been lifted, and Daryl's strength finally ran out. He fell to his knees, clutching his side and shivering.

Grimes was instantly at his side, kneeling down. Concern shone in his eyes as Daryl struggled to hold onto consciousness.

"Daryl," came Rick's gentle voice. "Were you bitten?"

Daryl felt himself shake his head and allowed Rick to examine his side. The large gash stung as Rick lifted up his shirt and examined the wound.

"You've lost some blood, but the cut is relatively shallow. I'm more worried about the bruising around your ribs. Can you stand?"

Dixon wasn't honestly sure, but he hoisted himself up as best he could, and when he felt his legs buckling again, Rick was already at his side.

"It's all right," said Grimes. "I've got you."

Daryl was vaguely aware of Rick fastening the crossbow behind his back, hoisting the ax in his left hand, and grabbing his arm with his right. With a grim smile of reassurance, they started walking.

The rest of the journey back to the prison was scattered for Daryl. He felt the distance traveled not through his sight but through the waves of pain that every rock and tree root inflicted upon his ribs and the rest of his weary body. Rick expertly guided both of them through the forest, and Daryl was surprised at the swiftness of their pace and the determination of the other man. Surely, Rick was suffering too.

At last, when Daryl felt he couldn't walk another assisted step, Rick pulled him closer.

"Daryl?"

Dixon forced his eyes open and focused on Grimes. Rick brought a hand to his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Hold on. It's a miracle both of us survived tonight. Through . . . whatever it was."

Then Rick smiled.

In awe, Daryl looked up and saw that they were standing before the massive gates of the prison, which was in the process of being re-built after the Governor's recent attack. A small surge of strength ran warmly through his veins and Dixon found the strength to walk the rest of the way.

Glenn and Maggie's shocked faces came into view as the gates opened and the two men helped each other up the paved road. Questions from the others burst out from the left and right, but they kept moving. Closer than the birthday decorations and endless garlands of white flowers that accosted his sight, Daryl noticed that Rick was slowing down.

Through the side entrance, and down a short corridor, the two men found themselves in the main cellblock, surrounded by their entire group.

"Is this the prison?" Rick whispered beside him. "Or did we take a wrong turn somewhere?"

"You two!" Hershel exclaimed, breaking past the crowd.

Beth was on one side of him, and Carol was on the other. Beth looked lovely, with a paper hat on her head and a garland of white flowers around her neck. Carol held a plate with an enormous piece of chocolate cake. To be interrupted mid-celebration by two rag-tag hooligans, the expression on their faces was pure astonishment.

"What on earth happened to you?" Michonne asked dryly on their left, accompanied by Carl.

Carol stepped closer to the two men, concern showing in her features. She brought a hand up to touch Daryl's shirt. And then, as if she couldn't help teasing him: "Did Christmas come early?"

Daryl was about to make a semi-snappy comeback, but Rick beat him to it.

"Yeah, Santa brought me an ax!" he declared and promptly fell over.

The others rushed forward, going to Rick. Daryl felt his knees buckling as well, but Glenn and Carol caught him.

"We're all right," said Daryl with a deep breath. "We just need a little rest. And then we're gonna need some cake."


End file.
